"Spider Robinson - C2 - Timetravellers Strictly Cash" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

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-Spider Robinson
Halifax, 1980

FIVESIGHT

I know what the exact date was, of course, but I can't see that it would matter to you.
Say it was just another Saturday night at Callahan's Place.
Which is to say that the joint was merry as hell, as usual. Over in the corner Fast Eddie
sat in joyous combat with Eubie Blake's old rag "Tricky Fingers," and a crowd had gathered around
the piano to cheer him on. It is a demonically difficult rag, which Eubie wrote for the specific
purpose of humiliating his competitors, and Eddie takes a crack at it maybe once or twice a year.
He was playing it with his whole body, grinning like a murderer and spraying sweat in all
directions. The onlookers fed him energy in the form of whoops and rebel yells, and one of the
unlikely miracles about Callahan's Place is that no one claps along with Eddie's music who cannot
keep time. All across the rest of the tavern people whirled and danced, laughing because they
could not make their feet move one fourth as fast as Eddie's hands. Behind the bar Callahan danced
with himself, and bottles danced with each other on the shelves behind him. I sat stock-still in
front of the bar, clutched my third drink in fifteen minutes, and concentrated on not bursting
into tears.
Doc Webster caught me at it. You would not think that a man navigating that much mass
around a crowded rooin could spare attention for anything else; furthermore, he was dancing with
Josie Bauer, who is enough to hold anyone's attention. She is very pretty and limber enough to
kick a man standing behind her in the eye. But the Doc has a built-in compass for pain; when his
eyes fell on mine, they stayed there.
His other professional gift is for tact and delicacy. He did not glance at the calendar,
he did not pause in his dance, he did not so much as frown. But I knew that he knew.
Then the dance whirled him away. I spun my chair around to the bar and gulped whiskey.
Eddie brought "Tricky Fingers" to a triumphant conclusion, hammering that final chord home with
both hands, and his howl of pure glee was audible even over the roar of applause that rose from
the whole crew at once. Many glasses hit the fireplace together, and happy conversation began
everywhere. I finished my drink. For the hundredth time I was grateful that Callahan keeps no
mirror behind his bar: Behind me, I knew, Doc Webster would be whispering in various ears,
unobtnisively passing the word, and I didn't want to see it.
"Hit me again, Mike," I called out.
"Half a sec, Jake," Callahan boomed cheerily. He finished drawing a pitcher of beer, stuck
a straw into it, and passed it across to Long-Drink McGonnigle, who ferried it to Eddie. The big
barkeep ambled my way, running damp hands through his thinning red hair. "Beer?"
I produced a very authentic-looking grin. "Irish again."
Callahan looked ever so slightly pained and rubbed his big broken nose. "I'll have to have
your keys, Jake."
The expression one too many has only a limited meaning at Callahan's Place. Mike operates
on the assumption that his customers are grown-ups--he'll keep on serving you for as long as you
can stand up and order 'em intelligibly. But no, one drunk drives home from Callahan's. When he
decides you've reached your limit, you have to surrender your car keys to keep on drinking, then
let Pyotr-who drinks only ginger ale-drive you home when you fold.~
"British constitution," I tried experimentally. "The lethal policeman dismisseth us. Peter
Pepper packed his pipe with paraquat . .
Mike kept his big hand out for the keys. "I've heard you sing 'Shiny Stockings' blind